Freakish Thoughts
by Rarely Written
Summary: Sally Donavan's thoughts on a certain consulting detective and how, with the help of certain tragic events and one conversation of complete understand, Sally learns what being a freak really means. "I can't be him. I tried, but I just can't. Part of me is relieved. To see the world like that, it must be the loneliness place on earth."


Sherlock Holmes. What a freak. There were times I didn't even think he was human… well most of the time if I'm honest. I mean, the bastard gets excited about over dead bodies. The more gruesome the better! He doesn't care who gets hurt as long as he gets he's jollies. It's sick.

Even if he wasn't a psychopath, even if he was just a little bit normal, on a personal level… He is such an arse! He waltz's in and insults everyone in a ten mile radius and if you dare talk back then you were in for it. Attaches himself to you like leach. Sucks you dry and walks away with a smug look on his stupid face.

Then one day he brings a friend with him… well, not friend. That freak didn't have friends. He's a pet really. John Watson; kind, loyal, brave. Made of better stuff than the freak. No, I liked John Watson; and I pitied him.

"_One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it here."_

With every passing day I got surer that the body was going to be John Watson. Poor guy. But when that day arrives I'm standing over a bloody and bruised corpse. John is a few feet away, an orange blanket wrapped around he's shoulder. All I can think of is how much of a bastard the freak was, making John watch. Watching a stranger fall would be bad enough, I can't imagine how it would be like if it was your friend.

Sherlock Holmes you utter bastard.

Time goes on. I hadn't seen John since that day. Lestrade keeps an eye on him and I keep an eye on Lestrade. I worried about him; he carried the guilt on his shoulders. The man used to work himself to death now does it because of the freak. He's not worth it. That man was not worth a single tear… but he still shouldn't be dead.

Because damn it I see it now. Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. There are cases that we got stuck on. Murders that walked free because we couldn't link them to the crime. I walk onto a crime scene and think,

"_What would the freak see?"_

But I can't be him. I tried, but I just can't. Part of me is relieved. To see the world like that, it must be the loneliness place on earth. Maybe that was the way he was the way he was.

He's still a freak though.

Then he came back. Of course if anyone was going to do it, it would be him. When I first saw him he was sporting a black eye. John was barely speaking to him and when he did it was in clipped tones. I was proud. It didn't last long, of course, but I'm proud all the same. And happy; because even though I hate the guy, even though he was a freak, he saves lives. That's what matters in the end. I still gave him hell though, he could try to care.

The day I realised I've been wrong was a dark day indeed. John had been kidnapped, by a guy more brutal than Moriarty, though thankfully not as smart. They sent us a video of John as they tortured him. There were no demands, no nothing. Just for their sick entertainment.

When watching the video for the first time we were all frozen to the core. John's screams seemed endless. These men were sick and all this was doing was sealing our desire to catch these sick bastards. I would even go so far as to say I hoped they resisted. I hoped we would bring them in in body bags.

I didn't know why I did it. Perhaps it was I couldn't watch John for another second. Whatever the reason, I looked over at Sherlock. The expression on his face was almost worse than watching the screen.

Heartbroken. Revulsion. Guilt. Fear.

The last was the most prominent of the four. He was terrified for John. He was sickened by it and he felt as guilty as hell for letting him be taken. He _cared._ The moment the video stopped it was gone, as quick as flipping a switch. Back was the heartless genius who did it for fun, like he didn't care for John at all.

But he did. Now I knew it was so obvious. It was in the way he worked, the hours he spent searching without food or rest. It was in the way he shot the culprits, cold hearted and without regret. The way he didn't spare them a glance but ran straight for John. The way he annoyed everyone he could while John was in surgery. He was frightened that despite everything, John wouldn't make it. I wanted to comfort him, but I didn't know how. Too much history between us… beside, it was Sherlock. He didn't want comfort.

John was alright. Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment in relief upon receiving the news. A moment later the mask was back, I would have missed it if I hadn't been looking. It was so strange, seeing the emotions of a previous psychopath. And yet… did he not always work himself into the ground solving cases? I'd always thought it was because it was a game he wanted to win and I'm sure that is part of it and yet… could there be something more?

…

I was standing outside the room, looking through the glass at John's sleeping form. He looked utterly broken, cut and bruised as he was. But I'd seen him with Sherlock earlier, bartering and smiling as usual. John Watson was a brave man, but then again I'd always thought so.

I slipped inside, unable to help myself. What is it about this man that inspired such feeling inside Sherlock?

The door clicked shut and John's eyes opened. I froze, John's eyes slightly panicked. Then the moment passed and he's face relaxed into a smile.

"Donavan. Is there something I can do for you?"

I shook my head mutely, searching for something to say. I really didn't know why I'd come in the first place. Finally I settled on the generic, "How are you doing?"

We continued our pleasantry that both party really invested in and soon the room gave way into silence. I observed him in the way I'd tried to do after Holmes' suicide… well fake suicide. I still wasn't as good as the freak, but I gave it my best shot.

John really was doing okay. He's wounds were healing and he was recovering emotionally from the trauma. He wasn't all the way there yet, the not sleeping and his reaction to my unexpected visit told me that. However, all and all he was going to be fine. I was glad, as I've said; John Watson is a good man.

"Look," John began, "What are you really doing here? Because whatever it is Sherlock will be back soon and I really don't want to witness a match between you right now. I'm too tired."

"The freak," I said suddenly, "Because don't get me wrong, he's still a freak. But he's _our_ freak. He's one of us and even though there are times that I loath to admit it he helps people."

John was frowning in confusion. Whether it was because he didn't know that I thought of Holmes as part of the team or if it was because he didn't know why I was telling him this I didn't know. I didn't know why either, to tell the truth. But I had to say something, to gain some sort of understanding. And who better than the freak's best friend?

"When you were taken there was a moment that he… well I'd never seen him so… _human_. He was scared for you and he was disgusted by what they were doing. He _cared._ I didn't know he could."

John's face had cleared of all confusion as I spoke. He smiled with a fond sort of smile. My revelation was hardly news to him, he'd been sure of Sherlock for a long time.

"He once told me he didn't. That caring wouldn't help save them. That was the last time I saw him before Moriarty took me for the first time. You know, the pool insistent," John explained.

I nodded. I remembered the whole case all too well. I wasn't in the thick of things; Lestrade thought I might distract him. At the time I'd been all too happy to step aside. Moriarty was a psychopath, I didn't want to go anywhere near him.

"When I walked into that pool there was a moment he thought that I was him. Before I revealed the explosives and I saw how hurt he was. He was trying to hide it but I knew him to well. But when I showed him the truth… well he didn't show he was afraid until Moriarty had left. Ripped the bloody bomb off my chest faster than you could believe," John continued, "Sherlock tries not to care, but he does."

"If he didn't he wouldn't be a detective," I concluded for him, "He'd be Moriarty."

John nodded. The thought of a Sherlock Moriarty was worse than I could ever imagine. After all he'd outsmarted Moriarty. I heard Sherlock's muffled voice coming down the hall and I knew that was my queue to leave. I approached the door, but just as I'd reached it I realised I had one more thing to say.

"Take care of yourself," I stated, "I don't think he'd recover if you died."

The door was opened by a flustered looking Doctor, Sherlock looming behind him. The Doctor rushed into the room, desperate to escape the abusing Sherlock was surely giving him. Holmes, however, hesitated upon seeing me here.

"Donavan?"

"Move it Freak," I stated, pushing past him.

I had a reputation to keep, after all. I looked over my shoulder to see John smiling at me, a silent promise not to repeat what transpired.

I continued down the hall, leaving Watson and Holmes to annoy the poor young doctor. In the weeks that followed, right up to John's release Sherlock hardly left his side. I felt sorry for the hospital staff. The moment John was back on his feet they were at a crime scene. Sherlock was deducing Anderson's non-existent sex life rather than anything about the case. I stayed out of it. Instead, I did a little deducing of my own.

I watched the way Sherlock moved with John, like he was ready to jump in front of a bullet at any moment. Sherlock would glance at John every so often, though if he was looking for approval or to make sure John was okay, I wasn't sure. When John felt Anderson had had enough he directed Sherlock's attention to the crime. To my surprise John looked at me and rolled his eyes, a smile on his face. My observing hadn't been that subtle it seemed.

Holmes hadn't noticed, so it didn't matter. John wouldn't say anything. And I got my conclusions. He was still a bastard. He was selfish and rude. He got excited over dead bodies falling so he had something to do. Yes, he was a freak.

But I didn't worry about him turning on us. I didn't need to keep watch, waiting for him to snap. Yes he was a bastard and yes he was a freak, but he's got a heart. He cares for people and would die for them. Already had once… well, sort of.

He saves lives and while part of it is because he is bored, a large part of it is because he cares. About people in general. And that's good enough for me.

Sherlock Holmes. Our Freak.


End file.
